Way The Third

There exist just three persons;

  we know well just two,

the first person me; the second one you.

That third person there,

   though real he may be,

Can know no more of us than we can of he.

And “Why?” you may ask,

   “should this third be so queer?

Is this third person unlike the two of us, here?”

Under duress now,

   I’m forced to concede,

since double entendre is easy to read

(Au Fait, en Français,

they spell it the same,

But in French it sounds erudite, clever, if tame.)

“Doobleh” they start,

Screwing up from square one

and then with “entendre” all breathy and ‘fun’

(well, depending on region,

inclination and tongue,

or tiny asymmetries deep in the lung)

an alveolar

exhaustion can quickly set in,

  the glottis and uvula primed for a win

that may never come

even after bell’s rung

despite that the French are known to be hung

up on a matter

more sensitive yet:

The prepuce that guards their most sensitive tête

They honor its service by tossling socks

(I observed this myself in the men of langue d’oc)

The Libertine’s cause

   of course serves a need,

a knead of the farmhands with surplus of seed

A wink and a grin

is all it would take,

since dubplay on tantra awakens The Snake,

It's metaphor,

yes, but no less contentious.

(There's another entendre for ‘snake’  - it's licentious.)

Redirecting our gaze now

to Troisième the Third,

such a queer one he is, fearing only one word;

See, if for some reason

maybe, out of the blue

a person, in error, might blurt out, “Oh, YOU!”

whereby in an instant

our third man, so fecund

suffers carnal demotion to a real ‘Person Second’.